


Pevensey's Unbuttoning Spell

by palavapeite



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Angst, Awkward Sex, M/M, So much angst, angst with a positive ending though, like really really awkward sex, mentions of background john childermass/OC, random background john segundus/OC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:01:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24096991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/palavapeite/pseuds/palavapeite
Summary: The idea was to meet a stranger, spend a night together, and then probably never see them again. (One would have to be a fool to expect more, really.)John Segundus' first meeting with such a stranger goes about as badly as it possibly can, and will haunt him for the next fifteen years.
Relationships: John Childermass/John Segundus
Comments: 15
Kudos: 45





	Pevensey's Unbuttoning Spell

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a ridiculous tropey fic about some ludicrous regency equivalent of grindr hookups, but then it morphed into something altogether different involving a ton of angst and the most awkward sex scene I could possibly subject two characters to. All that remained of the fun tropey bit, kind of, was the silly working title that I can't seem to replace with anything better now. 
> 
> All the thanks and love to [BeautifulSoup](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeautifulSoup/pseuds/BeautifulSoup) for the beta and all the cheerleading; all remaining mistakes are mine.

**_September 1806, London_ **

“I’m so sorry. I can’t.” Mr Segundus had never expected to feel regret, not on that day, out of all the days of his life on which he might have second-guessed his choices. Yet there it was, the flat stale taste, just a little of it, at the back of his palate. “I am leaving London tomorrow, on the morning coach.” 

“I see. Well, then…” The crow’s feet in the corner of the other man’s eyes deepened, holding sadness now where there had been merriment and laughter the night before, and Segundus wished, impulsively, that he could reach out and brush those lines back into that shape of mirth that had held him so captivated. He couldn’t, of course, not out here on Blackfriars Bridge where the Thames ran milky grey beneath them on a dreary Tuesday, but he had hoped to do it later, away from prying eyes, in the safety of the tavern where they had first spoken three nights before. It had not been Richard’s first time there, but Segundus had never dared to go prior to that evening, and had not been prepared for what the visit would do to him. What the things other men did to each other would do to him. What he had wanted Richard to do to him, from the moment he had seen the smile in his eyes, and let himself be rescued from a room of people he had never before met by a kind, and handsome stranger. 

“I suppose this is farewell,” Richard said, and Segundus, gripped by the hot heartbeat of the moment, wanted to kiss him, right there in broad daylight, out on Blackfriars Bridge, for why would they have run into each other, if it had not been _meant_? 

“If your business ever happens to take you out of London…” he began a line of wishful thinking, not really hoping to be so lucky – for when had luck ever been a great friend of his? – but unwilling to let go of the hope, the fantasy of Richard just yet. Wonderful, handsome Richard, who sighed a rueful smile. 

“My business is London.” He winked. “I am too old to be gallivanting about the countryside.” 

Segundus accepted this as the kind, gentle refusal it was meant to be, even though he much wanted to protest that Richard was hardly too old for anything. He could not be much more than ten years older than Segundus himself, forty, forty-five at most, and he had kept himself in better shape than most gentlemen Segundus had met. His grip when he shook Segundus’ hand was warm and firm, and Segundus’ heart ached with the small and dear dream he dared to indulge sometimes, a dream that lit up a very private, quiet part of his heart, one that was kept separate from everything else. One that was not yet burning, as the rest of him did, with the inferno of his other dream, the first one, the oldest one, and truest. 

“However,” Richard said then, as an idea passed across his face, “Perhaps, if you wished, I… might send word if anyone I knew were to travel your way, and might want... company for dinner? I do meet quite a number of men who are not yet averse to gallivanting, and I like to think some of them have profited from the serendipitous connections that I made for them... if only for a night or two.” 

Segundus wondered whether these gallivanting men were like Richard, or like himself. 

“Yes,” he answered, because it was impossible to refuse when he was about to step into a future that might hold everything and anything under the sun and moon. When it might well be holding this, too.

In the worn leather bag that he had slung over his shoulder he found, after a quick search, a piece of paper and pencil, and as he wrote, each word he put down stoked back the other flame inside his heart a little more and drove back his regrets. By the time he was done, his cheeks were hot despite the first chill of autumn. 

For the truth was, Mr Segundus longed for many things, but for some he longed more than for others. This one, the oldest, and the truest, he wanted so much that no other yearning quite could compare. 

“Lady Peckett’s Yard,” Richard read aloud when he took the slip of paper, and Segundus was powerless to hide the smile that split his flushing face in two. 

“York.” 

Mr Segundus longed for many things, but always, always, he longed for magic more.

***

**  
_Now_   
**

The sound of knocking is louder than Segundus was prepared for, and it loses none of its urgency, echoing ceaselessly through the emptiness of Starecross, as he makes his way to answer it. It’s coming from the door out to the back towards the stables, and it’s a little earlier than he thought to expect it, but the weather has taken such a turn, it may well have sped up a traveller and his horse on the road. The room is made up, at least, Charles saw to it before he left to visit his mother the day before. Segundus was just in there, running his hand over the cool sheets and making sure there’s water and enough wood, that the small mirror by the washstand is clean, and that there’s a cloth to cover it. He would have lit a fire, but–

The knocking persists, and a gust of wind whips a volley of raindrops against the windows as he passes down the stairs. 

He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror in the hall and straightens his cravat, pulls down his waistcoat, and runs a hand through his hair. His eyes linger on the streak of silver at his temple, growing ever more prominent as the days trickle by; it ages him, not beyond his years, but enough to dispel any lingering illusion of youth. There is some dignity in the grey, he likes to think, some sophistication, something befitting a schoolmaster. 

The next knock on the door is so forceful, Segundus can feel it resonating in his chest, and he hastens past the kitchen where cook has left dinner ready and prepared for later on the stove, to the door, apologies lining up on his tongue because how unforgivable is it to let somebody waiting out in this–

“At last,” the man outside grunts as he pushes past Segundus, rain pouring from him in torrents into expanding pools of water and mud on the floorboards. “I was about to pick the lock.”

“Childermass,” Segundus watches the man wipe at his face and shake out his hat and coat. He looks deeply displeased, but disinclined to offer an explanation for his appearance at Starecross Hall on an ill-tempered afternoon in late July. “What are you doing here?” 

“I was headed for York to fetch Vinculus.” 

“...So?” 

Childermass glares at Segundus, then gestures at the door. “I’m not going to make it to York today, am I? I’ve put Brewer in the stables–” 

“You can’t stay.” 

There is a long moment that is filled only by the sound of the rain, and Childermass’ glowering disbelief, rather as though he expects a joke that never comes. Segundus shifts uncomfortably, mortified by his own ruthless incivility, and Childermass huffs a joyless laugh, looking around as though expecting to see some kind of explanation. 

“The school stands empty. Is there anyone around apart from you?” When Segundus shakes his head minutely, Childermass’ eyes narrow. He takes in Segundus’ attire, and Segundus hates how the clothes that were just clothes a moment ago suddenly seem to betray him. “Are you expecting _company_?” 

The way he savours the last word makes Segundus grind his teeth, and he crosses his arms before his chest. “Mr Rawling is on his way back to London from Newcastle.” 

His heart is beating in his throat, but he doesn’t flinch, or so much as bat an eye when Childermass mutters, a sneer on his lips, “You are a damned hypocrite, John Segundus.”

***

**  
_September 1807, Harrogate_   
**

Mr Segundus’ ale had gone stale over the hour and twenty-three minutes that he had been waiting and wishing that he hadn’t taken the earlier coach from York, but had instead used the time won occupying himself in some useful manner that might have helped distract him. He was not doing a very satisfactory job of it now, with all of his attention and concentration being taken up by trying not to look at any of the other patrons, and not to draw attention to himself, lest people he did not care to be remembered by should create in their heads the memory of a somewhat small man, a nervous-looking dark fellow in clothes that had seen better times cradling a pint in a badly lit corner of their inn’s taproom. 

When, finally, at the appointed time, the man Mr Segundus had arranged to meet sat down opposite him, he wished he hadn’t taken any coach at all, and had stayed in York instead, and spent the evening at Mr Honeyfoot’s house as he had been invited to do. 

For a very short moment, he thought perhaps it was merely a mistake, or a coincidence, one of those hard to believe occasions of pure chance, where the world arranges itself into such an unlikely constellation of circumstance that one is tempted to believe it could not possibly be unintentional even though it is just that – but the man’s gaze was on the kerchief that stuck from Mr Segundus’ waistcoat pocket, its corner tied into a knot the way Richard’s note had instructed. To any observer, this might have passed as an unremarkable detail, no more than the result of inattentiveness or eccentricity, but, as Richard had explained, to the man who would be travelling through Harrogate that very evening, it would serve as a sign of recognition. 

Recognition sparked in Mr Segundus too, not only by virtue of the man’s face, that struck him in its entirety as a rather difficult one to forget or ever mistake for anyone else’s, but also because in close association with that very face, Segundus experienced the peculiar sensation of feeling very acutely the absence of a memory, of events remembered only through what had come after and the last thing he could recall before (the sight of an imposing ornately carved piece of wood, presumably a door). 

“Well met, Mr Segundus.”

That same lacuna of memory, so obscured that all of Mr Segundus’ efforts, magical and mundane, had barely succeeded at feeling around it to define the shape and boundaries of the void, was not faded for the man who had just arrived, who, though he had met Mr Segundus only twice (or, at least that was how many times Mr Segundus supposed they had met), knew profoundly more about him already than anyone, Segundus thought, had a right to. And now, sitting across from him in the King’s Men Inn in Harrogate, he knew this as well. 

“Mr Childermass. I had not expected…” Segundus watched how Childermass’ fingers curled around a pint of his own. His gloves lay on the table between them, and he had a strong smell of horse about him. “You’re Mr Norrell’s man.” 

“I am Mr Norrell’s man. Is that important, magician?” From Childermass’ mouth, this sounded like a challenge, a proposition, and an insult all wrapped into one, and it might have been intriguing, had Segundus not been at York Minster to witness hundreds of stone statues talk that day, had he not marvelled at the miracle, only to see all of England’s magic in its restoration being placed into the hands of a petty, avaricious man, who locked it all away in his library to keep to himself. A library Segundus was sure he had visited, but could not remember, a library that housed everything Segundus had ever wanted, guarded by the man who sat opposite him now, taking his measure with a keen eye. “Is this the first time you’re doing this, then?” 

“No,” Segundus lied, and Childermass leaned across the table to pull the kerchief from his pocket, contemplating it with half a smirk. How dare he, Segundus thought bitterly, encroach on this too, now, after he had already helped Norrell take his profession from him in all but name, take magic from him. “I presume it is not yours, either, then?” 

“I get around. I like to make the best of it.” 

At this – and quite despite himself, for he was not that naive or innocent a man, regardless of how Mrs Honeyfoot had exclaimed over his unassuming and gentle countenance the first time he had been invited to supper – Segundus felt his cheeks heat up, whether with anger or embarrassment he was not entirely able to say. His eyes darted to the bag at Childermass’ side, that had made a dull, heavy sound, when he had set it down before taking a seat. 

“Which priceless, old book have you acquired for him this time? Did he not have it yet, or were you just making sure nobody else had it, either?” 

“Is this why we are here?” Childermass asked evenly in response, sounding bored and casting a glance about the taproom, not acknowledging his bag with so much as a blink. Segundus, all too conscious of all the ways Childermass had him at a disadvantage, bristled. 

“Why _are_ you here?” Clutching his half-empty pint, Segundus squared his shoulders when Childermass leaned forward again, inclining his head and dropping his voice so low that no-one apart from Segundus was likely to hear what he said. His voice sent a shiver down Segundus’ spine. 

“I know why I am here. Do you?” 

With these words, he emptied his ale in several long, unattractive gulps before setting down the tankard. Riled by the vulgarity and coarseness of the other man’s behaviour, Segundus huffed, raising his own pint to his lips to drink up. 

“I certainly have not come here for you.” 

Mr Segundus did not, being generally of a kind nature, take joy in insulting other people, even if they should unexpectedly turn out to be Childermass, though it was, he thought, just as well that Childermass had given him ample opportunity for it. It would not do, he decided as he watched from the corner of his eye as Childermass stood and prepared to leave, to harbour regrets of any kind about the evening. If anything, he would do well to be thankful for the fact that neither of them could afford anyone else hearing of their meeting. 

“I bloody well hope not.” Childermass took his bag and slung it over his shoulder. “Or I’d have some bad news for you indeed.” 

“Do you ever have any other?”

***

**  
_Now_   
**

He’s so _young_. 

Of course he’s not really that young. Twenty-eight is not that young, but it is young compared to Segundus, who is pretty sure he has a waistcoat somewhere still that is older than Charles Rawling. Not that there’s anything wrong with that; it’s a perfectly serviceable waistcoat. 

But still. 

They finish their meal, and for a while they sit and talk, about the York Society, and Rawling’s visit to Newcastle and his attempted forays into Petty Egypt. Rawling is charming and talkative; he asks questions of Segundus, about Jonathan Strange and practical magic and Starecross, and Segundus is flattered and gives answers, and then the conversation dries, and Segundus can feel the moment of truth edging closer and closer. Rawling fidgets, and suddenly he says, looking Segundus straight in the eye, that he must tell him something. 

It sounds too earnest after their pleasant chat, and Segundus exhales very carefully, unaware that he was holding his breath in the first place. Has it all been a mistake? A misunderstanding? Does Rawling think he owes an explanation–

“I had an arrangement that night of the society meeting in York. I was going to meet Mr Childermass after, downstairs at the Olde Starre Inn.” 

“Oh?” Of course, Segundus knows that much already, but he isn’t quite sure what Rawling means to say. It was he who didn’t show that night. 

“Yes.” Rawling swallows, then attempts a nonchalant shrug. Something about his demeanor makes Segundus’ heart ache. “We had exchanged a letter or two beforehand, to set the terms.” 

Is he angry, Segundus wonders, or is he making an excuse for whatever will, or will not, happen tonight? 

“I thought you deserved to know.” 

Segundus doesn’t know how to respond. He can feel Childermass in an oncoming headache, doing idle, simple magic somewhere at the other end of the house, probably the library, where he is spitefully making Segundus pay for his earlier recalcitrance by pretending not to be there – so “as not to disturb Segundus’ _plans_.” 

Segundus wonders if he should tell Rawling that Childermass is here, if it would be the fair, decent thing to do. He wonders if Childermass would appreciate it after being treated so coarsely earlier.

“I see. Thank you.” 

They retire after this, leaving the dirty dishes out for the maid to find tomorrow when she returns. The house is dark and cold, and with every step that he takes, candle in hand as he guides Rawling through the winding old building, Segundus feels less and less in control of the evening, and more and more uncertain of what is going to happen once they reach the landing of the next staircase and get to Rawling’s room. 

What happens is that Rawling opens the door and walks in, and when he turns around to close the door, Segundus stays put outside in the corridor, and he can see in the young man’s eyes that he doesn’t know what to do either.

***

**  
_July 1809, York_   
**

Letters had arrived for him in his absence, Mrs Pleasance told him when he returned to Lady Peckett’s Yard, walking somewhat gingerly after days spent on horseback – which Mr Segundus was not used to, and which his thighs and backside would likely remember for days to come –, followed by several more days on several rather uncomfortable mail coaches, which they had resorted to taking on account of Mr Honeyfoot’s backside being significantly older and thus even less suited for travelling long distances on horseback than Mr Segundus’. While he had been in good spirits when they had boarded the first coach, the creeping monotony of the journey, and the many hours spent in silence with only his thoughts for company while Mr Honeyfoot and the other travellers had dozed, or chatted idly about daughters and wives and domestic things he had nothing of note to contribute to, had left Mr Segundus exhausted and fretful. Now, with only three flights of stairs separating him from his own bed, he thanked Mrs Pleasance and took the letters up with him to the third floor, kicking off his shoes and slipping out of his coat before sitting down on the edge of the mattress with a sigh. 

There was a note from Richard, and as he skimmed it he was disappointed to see that he had missed the date given in the postscript by two days. Falling backwards onto the sheets with a groan, he began to undo the buttons of his dusty and travel-worn waistcoat one by one, thoughts drifting. 

It was just as well to have missed the chance, he supposed, with everything that had happened in the past couple of days (and the fact that he had only just spent the night before his journey in the company of a very pleasant chap indeed). But perhaps especially because of what had happened since, it might have been a welcome distraction to entertain a gentleman for an evening, to have flighty, unimportant conversation and learn something of the goings-on in London, or to be told trivial stories of the life of a tailor, or lawyer, or student at the university. Richard had not lied in saying he met all sorts of men, and any of them would have done. 

Abandoning the buttons of his waistcoat halfway up and exhaling another deep, hearty sigh, Segundus tried to unkink his shoulders and release the tension that had been sitting at the back of his neck ever since… ever since, he thought wearily (and not for the first, second, or third time since leaving Wiltshire), their detour to the Shadow House. A tightness had twined itself up his back as he had explored the gardens there, wound its tendrils around his ribs and muscles, sitting there in his bones, like an invisible hand trying to unmoor him from himself and the waking world, to draw him into the shadowy halls of magic. 

Jonathan Strange’s magic. 

It sat there in Segundus’ bones still, like an echo of a mournful song from an foreign land. It was as intriguing as it was uncomfortable, as it was... other. And somehow it had left its mark on him, as though he had cut his finger in an inattentive moment, and was now reminded of the wound whenever he reached for something.

Reluctant to dwell on these particular thoughts, Segundus instead cast his mind back to the fellow he had met before his life had been so deeply upset. John, the man had said his name was during their very brief talk over a hastened pint that was largely for the benefit of the other patrons present. Segundus was very sure that ‘John’ had made up the name for the purpose of the meeting, and it had vexed him, both that he had never before thought to give any name for himself but his real one, and, even more so that, very likely, each time his partners had probably assumed he must have made it up, too. 

This fellow John was a teacher and depended on utmost discretion, or so he had intimated afterwards, when they had lain side by side and Segundus had slowly come back to his sated, sweating body from the sensual plane of oblivion that a good tumbling would sweep him off to. He understood, he had said, but perhaps, if opportunity presented itself, a way could still be found to repeat the encounter. It had been a good tumbling, and Segundus liked to think the other man would have said the same, though now that he thought of it, he was not entirely sure what they had ended up agreeing. 

Wiggling his fingers past the undone buttons of his waistcoat and past his shirt, Segundus experimentally reached down into the warmth of his breeches, with the vain desire to reclaim that calm he felt in the wake of completion, when the sweat began to cool on his skin, and he dropped back into his flesh, light-headed and elated. It was fleeting and ephemeral, impossible to replicate entirely, the taunt of pleasure and the chase of it, the exhilarating ache that silenced the entire world, and that was mourned as soon as it was soothed. 

He closed his eyes, and hazy images flitted through his mind, a notion of hot skin and warm hands and arms that closed around him, of a voice that sang desire into his ear, and when he was done Segundus cleaned himself with a crumpled handkerchief and tossed it, along with his neckcloth, into a corner from where he would pick both up once he was fully himself again. He closed his eyes for another long, quiet moment, when his hands brushed against the unread letters that had sat patiently on the bed beside him. 

Two of them were from booksellers in other counties, to whom Segundus had written inquiring about books of, or at least about magic in their stock, unwilling to give up on the prospect of obtaining some even though he knew – and Jonathan Strange had only confirmed it – that he would not receive a positive answer. 

Segundus cast aside these letters unopened, surprised to find that he wanted conversation. Not a discussion of magic, which was his usual desired subject, but indeed, a trivial chat would have more than satisfied him just in that moment, tired and sluggish as he felt, the content of release ebbing away to reveal just enough of his previous irritation to make him want distraction. 

He sat up and, having picked the handkerchief and neckcloth off the floor, took off his breeches and folded them over the back of his chair. There was enough water left in the kettle for the night, and as he waited for it to heat over the meagre flame, he picked up the remaining three letters, that likely only classified as such so the post could charge full price for them. 

They appeared to have all come from different places of origin, and were written on different paper, yet were of the same nature in that none of them was paper intended for letter writing. One appeared to be half a sheet of some public notice that had been scribbled onto, and the other felt like wrapping paper that had seen several uses, or else had had a rough time on the road indeed, and the third… Segundus had not the faintest idea who might be writing to him, wondered, very briefly, if perhaps one of the gentlemen of his recent acquaintance had found out his address to arrange for another, private meeting, when he unfolded the first letter.

_For next time_ , it read, _dispense with the conversation; it is dull at the best, hindering at the worst of times (as we have seen). Just get to it, especially if he’s from Lancashire…_

Segundus stood glaring at the note, frozen, until something popped in his hand and he looked down his front at the fist he had formed in the sudden spark of anger inside him, and that had torn a button clean off the front of his waistcoat. It would have dismayed him to damage his clothing so carelessly, but as he stared down at the round little shape in his palm, the onslaught of humiliation and indignation in his throat won over any material concern he might have had. 

How _dared_ he? 

He knew, of course, who had sent the note, had no doubt of what man could possibly demand recompense for petty offences given, just because he could. 

The second note, even shorter, made Segundus angrier still. 

_If you wish to make the best of an arrangement, overcome the notion of liking people. Just left a man cursing my name while regretting nothing. Neither do I, truly. You should try that._

The third one he barely glanced at before throwing it onto the fire. 

_If applicable - decline any proposed meeting around the 25th of this month. Fellow talks more than even you would suffer and is dreaming of true love. Then again, so are you, I bet…_

***

**  
_Now_   
**

There’s no knock on his door, and after a while Segundus stops listening for one, gets up from where he perched on the edge of his mattress, and surrenders to his listlessness. He starts, then abandons his nightly toilet halfway through, takes up and puts down books and objects that live in his room, finds a single glove in a dark corner between his dresser and a chair, and puts it away in a drawer where its lonely counterpart sits. 

At the back of the dresser he finds the drab green waistcoat that is older than Charles Rawling, and Segundus has the sudden urge to put it on, to slip into it and remember what it was like to be that young. 

It is tighter in some parts than he remembers, and looser in others. His chest, it seems, used to be fuller, which is both a surprise, and also sounds about right. The colour of the fabric was brighter back then, back when he only dreamed of magic, wanted magic so badly, before he ever saw or felt it, before he ever cast a spell himself. 

He regards himself in his dim, clouded mirror, turning this way and that, when his hand closes around something small in one of the pockets. 

The small button sits on the palm of his right hand and reminds Segundus of the moment it came loose fifteen years ago. He replaced it with a different one, he realises, though he cannot remember why. It has been _fifteen_ years, and yet his annoyance is so sudden, so acute, it reaches across the decades into the past, and he has a mind to throw the button into the grate and watch it burn. 

Childermass is in the library, pipe in one hand, a letter that Jonathan Strange wrote to Mr Segundus from the peninsula in 1812 in the other. He stopped doing magic sometime in the last hour, and now sits bent forward over the paper, tilting it to catch the light of the fireplace. 

“You didn’t specify the library as off limits,” he offers after a long moment of silence, in which he leans back in his chair, and Segundus aimlessly traverses the room, pushing at the stack of books and letters he abandoned on the table earlier today, and glancing at the half-empty glass of wine on the sideboard at Childermass’ elbow. 

“I am collating his letters for publication,” he remarks out of nowhere, and Childermass arches an eyebrow as he looks back down at the page. 

“I suppose it will provide an invaluable insight into Strange’s development as a magician.” 

“I suppose if that’s all the contribution I’ll ever make to the study of magic, it will be better than I could have hoped for,” Segundus replies petulantly, before rallying all of his bravado and snatching the letter from Childermass’ hands and tossing it onto the table. 

“What are you doing?” Childermass sits very still. 

“Dispensing with conversation.” The room is very silent all of a sudden, and Segundus’ voice is crisp in the air. “I want to fuck. I really, really need to get fucked.” He shrugs agitatedly. “So, would you like to?”

***

**  
_January 1811, London_   
**

The smell of stale alcohol and smoke brought back the memory of the previous night’s kisses, the taste of which returned to Segundus’ lips as he squeezed past the crush of bodies towards the bar. He could feel elbows, shoulders and hands brushing along his body, some hands perhaps less fleetingly than others, but his evening had, thus far, been such that he was not equipped to acknowledge any of them before he had had a drink. 

He had the drink, and then another, and even though he had been scanning the crowd none too subtly from his spot in a corner of the room, his third drink in hand, he did not see Childermass until he suddenly stood right beside him. 

“Thank you, but I am quite content without any more unsolicited advice from you,” Segundus replied stiffly, regarding the young man Childermass had condescendingly pointed out to him as “probably just what Segundus was looking for”. 

“You would like him. He’s positively mad for magic,” Childermass continued. “Wouldn’t shut up about it. Had to silence him with Pevensey’s Unbuttoning Spell.” 

“There’s no such thing as Pevensey’s Unbuttoning Spell,” Segundus replied testily, flinching at the mention of magic despite himself. He had not come to this place to think of magic, but to escape thinking about it. The evening had already not gone as he had hoped, and from where he stood, it now seemed as though it was only going to get worse. Not for the first time, he wished that he had saved himself the journey to London altogether. 

“Oh, are you sure?” Childermass grinned at him over the rim of his own pint. “Our breeches came off awfully fast…”

“I do not see what is keeping you from walking over there and enjoying a repeat performance, then.” As if on cue, however, the very man in question put down his drink and turned to make for the stairs that led to the upper floor, the gentleman he had been talking to in tow. Segundus shot Childermass a look. “Oh, but it seems he has found better company for the evening than you.” 

“I never do repeat performances,” Childermass replied, sounding rather more icy than Segundus had heard him. His smile could have cut glass. “And how is Mr Strange?” 

Preparing to leave for Spain. There was something painful about the words that made it quite impossible to say them out loud. Much as Segundus knew that it was his own fault, his own presumptuousness, that had landed him in his current position, he could not help his disappointment. Of course, Strange had many things to take care of before he left, and very little time. He had not really invited Segundus, either, but… “Yes, I remember your advice never to give the impression that you might be…” He looked at Childermass, trying to find words. “a person worth meeting again.” 

“I am honest.” Something in Childermass’ face twitched. “I do not burden my companions with vague and naive expectations beyond the present encounter. I don’t pretend I meet them for any other reason than fucking them.” 

“More wisdom.” Segundus had had plenty of it in the past years, and no amount of polite and not quite so polite responses had stopped the unsolicited notes from coming every couple of months. “You really can’t believe any man would genuinely want to know another? Might want to care for someone, and be cared for?” Might want to know someone, and be known. He bit down on the last part, aware that saying it out loud would likely cost him dearer than he could pay. 

“Oh!” Childermass laughed, and it was a nasty, amused sound. “No, but I do believe that you think that’s what you’re doing.” 

For a moment, Segundus was certain that he hated Childermass. Something hot was burning in his throat, and he let his gaze wander across the room for the simple reason that he could not bear to look at Childermass. When it met the familiar eyes of the man from last night by the bar, he ignored whatever Childermass had to offer in terms of an opinion, and left his side to seek a better ending to his day. 

Twenty minutes later, his head was pleasantly clouded by the heavy scent of lust, all irritations of the evening drowned out by the thrum of release in his veins, and Segundus relished the grip of a hand in his hair, the half whispered, half moaned praise as he set about reciprocating. _Fuck_ , the man said, rocking softly against Segundus’ face, _fuck, fuck, fuck, f–_ until the stream was abruptly cut short by the sound of violent commotion from below. 

“Fuck!” It was decidedly more empathetic than before, and, sprawled on the floor as he was shoved back, Segundus watched in sudden panic how the man began to haphazardly shove his shirt back into his breeches and look around the small room. “Fuck! The window!” 

Somewhere at the back of his mind, Segundus understood from the nature of the noise that the place was being raided, that someone must have tipped off Bow Street and it was in everyone’s best interest not to be caught anywhere near the building. 

He had long lost his companion, behind whom he had escaped out the window to the back by way of a drainpipe, and now hurried down dark, unfamiliar London streets with the increasing feeling of being trapped in a labyrinth when, suddenly, just around the next corner, he seemed to be back at the same street on which the molly house was situated. 

_“Halt! Halt, in the name of the law!”_ After a heartbeat that he stood frozen in shock, Segundus turned on his heel and broke into a run. He had barely made it halfway down the street when someone said his name and an arm grabbed him and pulled him into a narrow alleyway. 

“Childermass!” 

Childermass made no response as he ushered him further down the alley at brisk speed, seemingly unperturbed by the sound of running footsteps chasing them. The alleyway made a queer bend, the ground seemed to move, no, _was_ moving, and, head spinning and reeling, Segundus felt himself suddenly squashed between a cold, wet wall, and the warm, damp front of Childermass’ coat. It was just as well, he thought faintly, struggling to keep upright while feeling as though his feet might give out any minute. He squinted up at Childermass’ dark face, when behind them, men thundered past, still yelling, but not appearing to see either of them. Segundus could feel Childermass’ breath on his face, his lips ever so slightly parted in concentration. 

“You are doing magic,” Segundus breathed as understanding hit him, and he pressed his hands into the wall for support. The spell, whatever it was, trickled like cold water down his spine and made him shiver. “How?” 

“I simply do it.” Childermass sounded as though he hardly thought it worth an explanation. “There is nothing to it.” 

It was the most casual knife straight to the heart to hear it, as memories of every last failed spell Segundus had ever attempted came crashing down on him, twisting the blade deeper. 

“Says the man with access to all the books in England,” he replied quietly, trying to writhe free, but finding himself rather effectively trapped, both by Childermass and the lingering magic. The spell Childermass had cast seemingly without a thought. 

“Some things are not like they are in books.” 

In this, at least, Childermass was right. No book had ever truly prepared Segundus for the terrifying truth that the experience of magic, true, living magic, had opened his eyes to: that with everything he came to learn, came to know about magic, magic came to know something about him. And Segundus had wondered ever since whether perhaps he was nothing but a fool, after all, and a coward too afraid to succeed. 

“I know that.” Segundus stuck his chin out and pushed against Childermass, who resisted for a moment, then took a step back. “Do you think that means I want it less?” 

He loved magic. It was quite possible that he loved it even more now that he knew it to be frightening and uncomfortable and unsettling. It was _magic_ – did it not stand to reason that it would not be comfortable and pliant, or free? Was it not naive to think that it would not ask for something of him in return, or to assume it was not worth a sacrifice? 

To his surprise, Childermass had no smart response at the ready. After another moment of silence, Segundus straightened his clothes and faced down the deserted alley. London had gone quiet around them and Segundus bade Childermass a polite goodbye back over his shoulder as he began to walk away. 

“Do you know how to get to your lodgings, sir?” Childermass asked, and Segundus laughed as he turned a bitter smile on him. 

“I have none.” He paused, then looked Childermass straight in the eye. “And I could not stand to hear any more advice of yours, Mr Childermass.”

***

**  
_Now_   
**

It isn’t that Segundus doesn’t know what he wants. What stunts him when he kicks off his shoes and pulls off his cravat is that he doesn’t quite know how to go about getting it. He has seduced men before, and has let himself be seduced plenty of times, but he cannot imagine either of these things with Childermass. Seduction feels both unnecessary and impossible. They both know why they are here. 

They take off their clothes on opposite sides of Segundus’ bed, and Childermass watches wordlessly as Segundus takes the vial of oil from the very back of his bedside drawer where he keeps it, before walking around the bed. As they stand face to face, Segundus cuts through his urge to cover his own nakedness by reaching out and putting his hand on Childermass’ cock. Neither of them is hard quite yet, but neither of them is twenty-five anymore either, and at least as far as Segundus is concerned, this has nothing to do with Childermass. 

Reluctantly, after an unnerving dance of not quite leaning in, they kiss, and it feels absurdly like a hurdle taken. Segundus can’t remember ever not kissing his lovers – passionately, or perfunctorily, sometimes sloppily, or even chastely – and it seems like a quaint thing to have reservations about while Childermass’s middle and index fingers are two knuckles deep inside him. But, he thinks, biting down on a moan when Childermass wraps a hand around him in turn, he doesn’t need to kiss him if Childermass does not enjoy it, or thinks it unnecessary to the act, or silly, the way he thinks a lot of things about Segundus are silly, and god knows what he’ll think of this once it’s all over. When they do kiss, the kiss is none of the above, but they are both hard when they part, and the familiar spark of lust is licking at the inside of Segundus’ chest. 

He gets onto the bed onto his hands and knees, hands gripping the sheets in anticipation of the bliss that will allow him to move on from the temporary awkwardness of presenting his back and rump on all fours – to Childermass, of all people – to forget himself, and his body, and this room and house for just a while. 

They make little ceremony out of it, but Childermass makes a guttural sound when he bottoms out, and Segundus gives himself a moment to reel with the sheer relief of the sensation. It doesn’t matter what Childermass thinks of this; after all, he doesn’t really care, does he, and they have both fucked enough strangers to know how to do this and get it done. 

Braced against the headboard as they fall into a rhythm, Segundus closes his eyes and tries to ignore the strain that creeps into his shoulders much sooner than he’d like, tries to forget his tired knees, and what he’s doing, and whom he’s doing it with when Childermass touches a seeking hand to the soft underside of Segundus’ belly, feeling for the dwindling arousal. It’ll come back, Segundus wants to say, but bites down on the urge and wills himself to make it happen instead.

He would rather not care, and just feel what he wants to feel in these moments, when he gets so close to what he yearns for, when things are almost, almost as he’s always imagined, dreamed they could be.

The bed creaks and moves under them, and the old mattress provides little stability, and when Childermass moves his hand away again and pulls out, Segundus lets himself be turned over and sinks his aching shoulders into the pillows with silent gratitude, watching as Childermass lowers himself down onto him. 

They pick up again, and Childermass’ eyes are closed, as though he’s trying to focus, but the next time Segundus looks, he’s looking right back, and he doesn’t look triumphant, or swept away by passion. Just like Segundus, he seems altogether too much there, and somewhere between them hovers the uncomfortable realisation that they both _need_ ; right there in that moment they _need_ , and _want_ , and they know this about each other now.

***

**  
_August 1818, Starecross_   
**

“Look who it is!” Vinculus exclaimed with an air of delirious glee upon entering the little parlour in which Segundus had just been about to take his afternoon tea. “The King of Cups! And teacakes!” He added this while helping himself to the plate of biscuits that the housekeeper had brought for Mr Segundus along with her trademark brew that she insisted would keep him in good spirits despite the sultry heat that had been hanging over the moors these past days. 

Perhaps, if Segundus had had a chance to drink some of it he would have been in better spirits when, ten minutes later, he was arguing heatedly with Childermass in front of the large parlor mirror. 

“Do not pretend now, _Mr Segundus_ , that having the Book all to yourself for an evening is not ample payment for my peace of mind.” Childermass’ voice cut short any further protest that might have been brought forth. Segundus looked at his face to see that he appeared to be regaining his sharp, unruffled composure and looked quite like he always did, even though a moment ago, he had been so agitated that it had made Segundus outright embarrassed to behold it. To his relief, a minute later, all there was to see was the smooth, dark surface of the mirror into which Childermass had disappeared. 

“Oh, you are making your King proud, I’m sure,” Mr Segundus said – pettily, not because he assumed Childermass could still hear him – before shifting his attention to the magical vagrant currently drinking his tea. 

Though it may have struck an onlooker as somewhat unexpected and peculiar, Vinculus was rather fond of Mr Segundus and, as a result, not by far as cumbersome a guest as he might have chosen to be in another man’s home. This was not, Mr Segundus surmised, due to any particular affection Vinculus held for the schoolmaster as a person, but rather for the comforts that the school of Starecross Hall provided him. Comforts that, admittedly, were also not due to any particular affection Mr Segundus himself held for Vinculus, but for the scholarly benefits he reaped from providing the old man with a hot bath, an ample dinner, and a clean change of clothes – cast-offs he had come by in a rather roundabout way when the father-in-law of Mr Honeyfoot’s eldest daughter had died, and had proven too spindly a man in life for his clothes to be of use to any of his sons – whenever Childermass brought him along to stay for a night or two. The housekeeper was never pleased to be presented with the rags Vinculus usually wore, but had them laundered, or aired out as much as was possible, depending on the length of Vinculus’ visit, if only so she could countermand the borrowed garments upon his departure. 

Hours after dinner, Vinculus sat cross-legged on the carpet in front of the drawing room fireplace, stripped of his shirt and hunched forward so Segundus, who sat behind him, could observe and copy passages of the writings on his back down into the notebook he kept exclusively for such occasions. Segundus had just voiced a haphazard guess whether a recurring symbol might signify a name – of a place, perhaps, or an object or spell – when the old man released a hearty belch that turned into a wide yawn, and Mr Segundus was once again caught off guard by the deep chasm separating the near-religious fascination and awe that the King’s Letters inspired in him whenever he studied them, and the wholly disenchanting profanity of Vinculus’ physical existence. 

“I believe this particular passage says,” the old man croaked suddenly, much to Segundus’ astonishment – he never usually offered his opinion on the contents of his skin – “That the whore of Babylon has come home.” 

“Says the man who has wed five wives and not been widowed once.” The voice manifested in the same moment as the man to whom it belonged, and Childermass stepped out of the large mirror he had previously disappeared into, his hair unkempt and windswept as always, and his waistcoat only buttoned halfway over his haphazardly tucked shirt. He greeted Mr Segundus and Vinculus with a polite nod and a gesture with his pipe, which he approached the fire to light, his careful, gingerly steps writing the tale of his evening’s events in faint outlines of dust and earth on the carpet. 

“That was fast,” Vinculus cackled, looking through the assorted cups and mugs that he had arranged around himself as the evening wore on – tea, hot chocolate, port, hot milk with honey – and emptying the last one – brandy – all the while eyeing Childermass, whose face was hidden behind a puff of smoke, and who did not look as though he was much tempted to sit down. 

“You’ve never complained before.” 

“I’m not having to wait it out in some ditch in the rain now, am I?” Vinculus smacked his lips and turned to grin widely at Mr Segundus over his shoulder, cup of brandy raised as though for a toast.

Childermass did not deign to respond any further. He smoked his pipe for a while, idly watching as Segundus worked a spell to heat up the dregs in his own cup of tea before finishing them, and inquiring politely whether Mr Segundus had made any discoveries, which Segundus had to admit he had not. Finally, he blinked at the clock above the mantel and turned to the door, remarking that he was going to retire, with Mr Segundus’ permission, to the same draughty bedchamber right below the roof that he always stayed in, and that Segundus confirmed had been prepared for him. 

“It has been a long day,” Childermass said, tipping his hat, a smirk twisting his face. “And a hard ride.” 

When he was gone, Mr Segundus had a look at the clock himself, and said, not without some regret, but remembering Vinculus’ wide yawn, that they had probably better call it a night too. Vinculus voiced no objection, only some displeasure when his request for one last cup of brandy for the night was politely denied. 

“Does he really make you wait outside in the ditch?” Mr Segundus asked eventually, collecting his pen, notebook, and paper. 

“Ditch _es_. Never the same one twice, oh no.” Vinculus had slipped back into his shirt and when he turned on the spot, arms stretched out on both sides, he kicked over one of the cups on the carpet. He peered down at it, then grinned at Segundus. “Except for this one, sir, which I do not mind in the least. Even though it is a dry one, sir. A very dry one.” 

Mr Segundus let slide the last remark, so as not to reignite the argument about Vinculus’ brandy, but found it difficult to contain his consternation. He habitually groused about the way Childermass had begun to use Starecross as a hotel for Vinculus, but while so far their heated discussions had been dominated by whether it was at all appropriate to use the King’s Roads as a shortcut to buggery, Mr Segundus was rather of a mind to hold him in contempt for how little regard he appeared to have for the most valuable book of magic to ever exist, never mind that he also happened to be a person. 

“Oh, Mr Segundus.” Vinculus sounded darkly amused as he beheld Segundus’ peevish expression, and he tutted and approached, grinning his yellow grin altogether too close to Segundus’ face for comfort. “Don’t you be so sure now what you might be tempted to do yet.”

***

**  
_Now_   
**

It should be nothing like this, and it frustrates Segundus, frustrates him how he can’t see and feel past Childermass, Childermass weighing him down, straddling him, his skin moving against his own. 

Every so often, pleasure gutters and surges up inside him, and Segundus closes his eyes and wishes he could be washed away by it, have himself drowned by it the way he always has, but the waves break themselves upon the rocks that are Childermass and the way his breath hitches at the end of every inhale and his hips meet the back of Segundus’ thigh on every thrust, and Segundus remains chained to the moment, tossed by the ebb and flow of that tide while his release drifts ever further from his grasp.

Childermass seems, if not stoic, at least determined, and Segundus wonders what he’s thinking. It feels strange to stare at his face, and Segundus hopes it won’t be noticed, hopes Childermass, at least, has managed to forget himself in this, but perhaps the pinched look on his face is proof that this isn’t going to work, that this –

Childermass’ eyes open and meet his, and, impulsively, Segundus surges up to kiss him, before he can be caught thinking, before either of them can see yet another thing they don’t want the other one to know. Childermass shudders in surprise, shoulders buckling as he kisses back, and the weight of him knocks a moan from Segundus that they both flinch at. 

How graceless it all is, Segundus thinks as they roll over, how clumsy they are, the way all firsts are, though they are neither of them inexperienced or inconsiderate, and it should not feel like a first. 

Back arched and head thrown back, Segundus lowers himself onto Childermass’ cock, bearing down and meeting his thrusts with stubborn force, clutching Childermass’ hand as it reaches for his cock, and placing it on his hip instead. Childermass groans, and the pace they set feels more like an argument, or a battle of wills, than an act of pleasure, but Segundus will be damned if he relents.

They go on like this, and Segundus is beginning to realise that it won’t do, that they will never be done, that this will go on forever and never lead them anywhere, when the bed shifts, and Childermass thrusts harder than expected, and the suddenness of if knocks a gasp of pain from Segundus’ lungs that brings it all to an abrupt halt. 

Childermass releases his hold on him, and his fingers leave behind faint red marks on his skin. 

Perhaps, Segundus thinks, he should walk away, perhaps this really is leading nowhere. 

Looking down into Childermass’s face, Segundus is suddenly terrified to think that Childermass might see the same loneliness reflected in his eyes that he can see in Childermass’, and he covers his eyes with his hands and takes a shuddering breath before dropping them to the soft front of Childermass’ belly. He moves, tentatively, slowly, in his lap, up, and down again, and when Childermass makes a reluctant sound, Segundus guides his hands back, higher than before, to the soft part below his ribs that gives under the touch. 

“Not so hard.”

He fights to break the words from his mouth; it feels like breaking off a part of himself. 

Childermass nods minutely, and his hands tighten their grip, not as hard as before, but solidly, enough to catch some of the weight. As they fall back into a rhythm, Segundus’ fingers draw a line from Childermass’ navel to his nipples and his collarbone and he presses his whole weight down on him as he moves with a kinder, altogether differently harrowing urgency. He can feel the agony in Childermass’ moan when he raises a hand to his mouth and pushes a finger past his lips, and one of Childermass’ hands drops once again to Segundus’ cock. “Please” reverberates through his finger as Childermass hums the word around it, and Segundus hardly knows what to do with the pleasure, unsure how to enjoy it without losing even more of himself. 

“Yes,” he breathes.

“I’m–”

“Yes.”

He is lost, after all, perhaps not in himself, but amidst all of this, shackled to his confused body and Childermass and the moment. The waves keep crashing, breaking on the rocks, and Segundus thinks he’s lost the strength to fight the chains and ocean both, and sinks forward with a groan. Childermass’ arm wraps around him, and he clings and moans like a drowning man, his voice echoing from the depths.

“Yes.”

“Please.”

“Oh.”

He mouths at Childermass’ chest, and only a little turn of his head away, there is a round scar for his tongue to find, and to remind him that it’s Childermass whose hand is still wrapped around his cock, a little too tight, then not quite tight enough, until, at last, it’s good. Their hips buck frantically now, the dip of Childermass’ throat works as he swallows, and Segundus bites at it, to anchor himself there.

“ _Yes_.”

He pushes up onto his elbows to look Childermass in the eye, and away again, and then he looks again, and again because there is so much to see there, because it tears into him like a knife that twists a little deeper each time.

***

**  
_December 1822, York_   
**

The last meeting of the York Society of Magicians of 1822 at the Olde Starre Inn concluded with a packed room of agitated scholars finally and eagerly descending like a flock of vultures upon Vinculus, the guest of honour, who, plied with food and spirits, bared and extended any and all parts of his body the gentlemen of the society felt could, with the most liberal application of propriety and good conscience possible and in the service of scholarly pursuit, be bared and extended in the presence of the lady magicians also in attendance. Said lady magicians had made it absolutely and perfectly clear that they would not, under any circumstances, suffer being excluded from the examination, and, having just lost the tug of war over both of Vinculus’ arms, were loudly clamouring for a bit of leg instead (either leg would do). 

Mr Segundus, who had had his fill of bickering for the night, and who was little tempted to be caught up in the crush of bodies around the old man, who was bound to visit Starecross Hall again sooner or later, decided to absent himself from the meeting, and, having notified his good friend, Mr Honeyfoot, who was just then hovering on the edge of the commotion trying to peak over people’s shoulders from the vantage point of a windowsill he had thought to climb for extra height, left the heat of the assembly rooms for the less martially charged heat of the taproom below. There, he had to find out that Mr Childermass had had much the same idea at some earlier point in the evening, as he was just then sitting in a solitary corner of the moderately crowded room, and greeted Mr Segundus with a languid raise of a half full pint of ale that he set down next to another one – empty, Segundus ascertained when he drew up a chair for himself and sat down with a pint of his own. 

For a while they spoke about the society meeting, sharing their thoughts on the various subjects raised – it had been a very long evening – and agreeing and disagreeing in the polite, dispassionate manner of two men who have had their share of battle for the night and can find no more pleasure in quarrelling. Privately enjoying Childermass’ acerbic observational remarks on some of their colleagues, Mr Segundus was also, in their recapitulation of events, able to pinpoint the moment at which Childermass had decided to leave, which he had not at the time noticed because he had himself been in the middle of a heated counterargument to something impulsive, reckless and absolutely _typical_ that Mr Hadley-Bright had proposed and that would probably have gotten Starecross School closed again by mere association with his name (as Mr Hadley-Bright had recently become a tutor there). 

Childermass excused his abstaining from the discussion with the rather lofty remark that the closing of Starecross would, respectfully, take someone of a rather heftier calibre than Mr Hadley-Bright, to which Segundus responded tartly with the suggestion that Childermass not flatter himself unduly, as it had scarcely been his own calibre that had helped him close it the first time. This, Childermass was able to take in good humour, as they had bickered about this particular subject before, several times in fact, with each reopening of the matter taking them a little further from the acute agony of the memory of the incident, to a place where Segundus could content himself with the fact that Childermass had not acted at his own behest, little difference as the knowledge had made at the time.

They were halfway into another round of ale and discussing the implications of the talk Childermass had missed earlier, by promising young geographer-turned-magician Mr Rawling, on his upcoming investigation of the four woods surrounding the King’s city of Newcastle, when the first exhausted members of the York society began to descend from the assembly rooms. They bade both Segundus and Childermass good night and Merry Christmas, and, when asked, ventured a guess that the younger colleagues were unlikely to be finished in their discussion of Vinculus’ left ankle any time soon. This last comment was in response to a question of practicality on Segundus’ part – he had, as always when he came to York these days, accepted the Honeyfoots’ invitation to stay at their house in High Petergate and would never in good conscience have returned there without Mr Honeyfoot. As the same invitation had been extended to Vinculus (and Childermass, presumably), Mr Segundus’ bedtime, and Mr Honeyfoot’s also, depended entirely on the stamina displayed by the next generation of eager magicians upstairs. However, when Mr Segundus made a comment loosely in this vein, having noticed how Childermass watched attentively whenever someone descended the stairs, he was surprised to hear that Childermass had turned down Mr Honeyfoot’s offer of a bed for the night. 

“But I am quite certain Mrs Honeyfoot had the housekeeper specifically warn the maid about Vinculus–” 

“Oh, Vinculus is very much staying at the Honeyfoots’. Right she was about the maid.” Childermass showed himself drily amused at the blush that had crept onto Segundus’ cheeks at his slip of indiscretion, then promptly saved him any further embarrassment by turning it into a flush of outrage. “I have made other arrangements for the night. I certainly will make sure to ask Mr Rawling in depth about his magical wood now you have told me about it…” 

“Childermass!” Segundus countered Childermass’ leer with (he felt) righteous indignation. It was, he thought, in decidedly poor taste. “Mr Rawling is a most promising young colleague! How can you possibly take advantage? And he’s set to leave on the early coach tomorrow morning!” 

“And a good thing that is,” Childermass smirked most appallingly. “For he’ll not be wanting to go on horseback, if I have any say in it.” 

“You are the worst villain.” Segundus gave him his best disapproving look, to which Childermass had no less infuriating answer than a shrug, and an offhand remark that it had been Mr Rawling who had suggested the arrangement in the first place. 

Mr Segundus was determined to maintain his disapproval regardless, though he had to admit that he did so with limited success as their conversation moved on to a different topic, and then on to yet another, until Mr Honeyfoot appeared at their table two hours later, announcing that the meeting had, at long last, disbanded. Having unsuccessfully repeated his invitation to Childermass one more time, he asked Mr Segundus whether he was quite ready to go home. 

The Honeyfoots’ door in High Petergate was within view, when, rather suddenly, Childermass stepped out of the shadows – natural shadows, not magical ones – to ask Mr Honeyfoot with far too little humility (or so Segundus thought) whether perhaps, the offer of a room still stood, after all. 

There were a number of things Segundus itched to say, none of them suitable for Mr Honeyfoot’s ears, so he contented himself with saving them for a later point, and directed his efforts instead towards silencing Vinculus’ cackling laughter.

***

**  
_Now_   
**

Segundus almost can’t believe it when it happens; it feels less like a climax and more like they have at long last chafed themselves raw against one another. But it does happen, and Segundus’ head is ringing with how much he feels himself in his skin, far, far too much to float on out on the calming ebb of his release.

Painfully aware of Childermass catching his breath on the mattress beside him, Segundus tries not to groan with the sheer relief of lying down. He feels exhausted, not just physically, though his backside smarts just right, and his knees and thighs ache just wrong; both of those are familiar pains. Not like the other one, the uncomfortable one, that feels too much like the soft underside of his belly has been torn open, spilling forth his insides, and he doesn’t know how to put all of that back together again. 

He sits up eventually, once he can feel the chill on the air, and pretends like his joints don’t crack mortifyingly as he does. Childermass’ eyes open and look up at him. Segundus looks away to wipe a hand over his face, then ventures another glance. He dreads the moment Childermass will say something, fears what terrible thing might come out of his mouth when he does; he can feel his own bravado waiting in the wings, waiting to take the stage, and take them both out of this moment in which one of them has to volunteer to pad across the cold floor to the wash stand and fetch a cloth. Until then there is only silence.

They wash side by side sitting on the bed, not facing each other, not quite turned away, either. Segundus wipes Childermass’ seed from between his thighs, and catches a glimpse of Childermass cleaning his off his stomach. He sits hunched over, and Segundus’s gaze lingers for a moment on the tired curve of his spine, the slow roll of his shoulders when he wipes the sweat from the back of his neck where his hair sticks to his skin. Segundus watches as his hand wanders along his shoulder, fingers digging into the muscle there and squeezing water from the rumpled washcloth, and when he turns his head only just enough to meet Segundus’ eye, Segundus stills, only then realising that he too has been absent-mindedly kneading his own, sore thighs. He should feel embarrassed, but finds he is strangely beyond any such sentiment now, so he just shrugs.

“Do you want to go again?” 

Childermass holds Segundus’ gaze for one more endless heartbeat, and then the tension between them snaps, and they both laugh. Laugh, at the sheer ridiculousness of the moment, and how wildly unprepared they are for it, how completely out of their depth, and at the laughable reality of how old they are, and how tired their bones. 

The laughter makes it bearable, the nakedness, and in the end Segundus holds out his hand for the cloth Childermass is still clasping, and tosses it into the basin along with his own. 

The cold is creeping through their skin then, and Childermass fishes for his shirt and turns it over in his lap looking for the right way up, his lips parted just so, as though he’s about to say something, but can’t quite bring himself to. Picking his own shirt off the floor, Segundus fails to find words that fall anywhere near adequacy, words that won’t destroy this fragile, carefully balanced moment, but not destroy Segundus, either. Maybe there aren’t any such words. 

Leaning across the narrow bed, he presses a kiss to Childermass’ cheek, brief and light, something that could not possibly be misconstrued even though he’s not entirely sure what he means by it. If Childermass doesn’t care for it, that part of Segundus that is still too bare, too raw for comfort, that gash revealing the hollow beneath his ribs, might not tear too much wider than it has. If Childermass does...

One of Childermass’ hands brushes up along Segundus’s thigh, almost unintentionally, as he returns the silent gesture, setting his lips softly to the line of Segundus’ jaw just below his ear, and Segundus decides not to think about what that means, what consequence it comes with. Maybe this is what sex with Childermass is always like, maybe Segundus knows him that little, he thinks distractedly as they are both pulled down onto the pillow until they are lying face to face. Except he doesn’t know him that little at all, Segundus realises, as they twine together sheets and limbs, and kiss again, and again, and then stop coming up for air for a while altogether. 

Segundus’ fingertips chase the cool of the night air on Childermass’ skin, down the dip of his spine, until he feels the soft curve of his backside against the hollow of his palm. Childermass stills at the touch, a caress almost, stills, tenses, and Segundus does too, until, like a tree releasing a flock of birds, Childermass sighs, and sinks against him, not all at once, but slowly, bit by bit. 

Segundus doesn’t move, but lets himself be pulled closer, and closer, deeper into Childermass’ arms. In the tightness of their embrace and the languid fervour of their kissing, he begins to understand with a faint hint of trepidation that Childermass is pressing his own invisible wound against Segundus’. 

It soothes the sting, staunches the bleeding, heals over the rugged, frayed edges of the deep, secret gash beneath his ribs, and yet, choked with wonder and unease, Segundus feels as though some part of him will not be disentangled from what has happened, as though he will not leave this bed entirely unscathed, unchanged.

***

**  
_The Future, Helmsley_   
**

Mr Segundus’ ale had gone stale over the hour and twenty-three minutes he had sat looking out of the window, and when the rain began looking like it was about to let up, he set to finishing it, not quite in a hurry yet, but wanting to be back at Starecross in good time for dinner. Nobody in the room had been paying him any mind since he had sat down in a nook by the window; all around him the inn was bustling with activity as guests arrived and crowded around long tables, chatting and laughing and animatedly sharing tales of their journeys while their children bounced about the room.

“You do not look like you are here for the wedding.” 

Mr Segundus, who had not noticed the shadow that had fallen onto his table until then, was stopped in his reply that no, he was the headmaster of a nearby school and had come on business and was expected back at his school tonight, when he looked up to find that the man who had spoken was Childermass, who already knew most of these things. 

“How do you know about the wedding?” he asked instead, shuffling his chair to make room for the one Childermass was pulling up, to sit down on with a small sigh. 

“The kind people who gave me a ride from Brandsby would talk of nothing else.” 

“Oh, they must be relatives of the bride,” Segundus mused, casting a glance about the room, where the party of wedding guests grew ever bigger as local faces joined their company. Mr Segundus knew all about the Graham wedding on account of two of his pupils being from Helmsley and one of them a relative of Mr Graham, owner of one of the bigger farms in the area, which was why his wedding was turning out to be quite the affair. His bride, Mr Segundus had been told, hailed from Yearsley and came, it was said, with a large array of relatives in addition to her sizable dowry… “What’s happened to Brewer?” 

For a moment, Childermass looked taken aback. 

“Nothing. I left him stabled in York, with Vinculus.” He shrugged as though it was a matter of no significance, and Segundus watched him drain his pint to the halfway point, feeling somewhat silly for having asked. Yet when Childermass set down his glass, his voice betrayed an unexpected softness. “He’s getting on in years. It seemed the kinder thing to let him have some rest after taking me all the way up from London.” 

Having said this, he fell silent, and Segundus was unsure of what to say in response, all too aware of the uncomfortable tension that enveloped them, like two people passing each other on the street and finding the way too narrow to do so without entering the other’s personal space. He wondered, dismayed and astonished at the fact that he had never quite considered the matter before in such terms, whether he _liked_ Childermass, or by which measure he might quantify, or label the familiarity of him, the plain fact that he had known this man for years and years, or the undeniability of him in every aspect. He was there, and Segundus was there too, and that was a truth entirely beyond value or judgement. 

“I do not presume you’re here for the wedding, either?” He spoke softly, casting only the briefest glimpse at Childermass, glad that he seemed occupied staring out into the rain and didn’t meet his eye. 

“No, I’m for Riveaulx, on magic business,” he replied casually, though there was a curiosity in his tone that sounded, to Segundus, rather like an invitation to weigh in on the matter. This he did by asking, with a tone revealing some amount of displeasure, whether it couldn’t by any chance be Mr Higgins who had asked for his help, which, upon Childermass’ response in the affirmative, he then further expanded on by describing how he himself had explained to Mr Higgins time and again, and in no uncertain terms, that a sinkhole was not made a fairy circle by the circumstances of a handful of sheep disappearing into it, and that a perfectly mundane solution would take care of the matter just as well. When he had finished, Childermass was smiling into his ale. 

“Of course you would. I might have expected something of the sort…” 

It was, Segundus thought, exactly the kind of response one could expect from Childermass; brief, dry, and sure to make Segundus feel as though he’d been once again caught at being altogether too much _himself_ , even though Childermass did not seem to have meant to mock him at all. It was vexing in the most familiar way imaginable, though in the end, Segundus was not sure what else he would have wanted Childermass to say instead that wouldn’t have irritated him all the more for not being just the typical thing for him to say. Perhaps, Segundus mused, such was the nature of knowing someone. 

They sat in silence while outside the rain came almost to a stop. When Segundus asked whether Childermass was still going to Riveaulx despite what he had been told, and got only a distracted hum in answer, as though Childermass’ thoughts were on something else entirely that he did not wish to share, Segundus found he was too distracted himself to care very much. 

For the truth was, underneath all the trivial chatter and his ramblings, the thing he truly wanted to ask Childermass about was what they had done the last time they had met – perhaps to apologise, to ask forgiveness for his part in what had happened, or perhaps to suggest that nothing had happened that had not best be put behind them, the way Childermass had always put these arrangements behind him, never to revisit...

More than anything, though, he wanted to know if Childermass had ached the way Segundus had ached, for days afterwards, for weeks, the way part of him was still aching over the hollow that had been torn open in him, and how he could not bear to let it heal over again completely, to lose the discomfort of it, the permanent reminder of what he had given of himself. What they had both given of themselves, and had seen the other give. 

Did Childermass have any idea at all of what had happened? He had to; he always seemed to know with frightening accuracy about all the ways in which Segundus lacked courage, all the foolish ways in which he was vulnerable and unable to hide it. In a way, that was the very nature of knowing Childermass. 

“I was hoping, rather,” Childermass spoke when Segundus finished his ale, and he sounded a little hoarse, as if the words had been sitting in his throat for a while, “I’d be permitted to make use of Starecross’ hospitality tonight. Even without Vinculus.” 

It should not have been so impossibly difficult, so hard and upsetting, Segundus thought desperately, to want something. The wanting was the last thing he had expected to feel, and yet the truth remained that feeling it, all of it, was somehow preferable to the peace he had known before, because he felt it deeply, acutely and endlessly. He hadn't known he could feel himself so much. He hadn't known he could feel someone else so much. He hadn't known he wanted to. 

“You are always welcome at Starecross,” Segundus said, and the weight of the words was too much, too far beyond what he could bear, so he added, quietly. “I’ll tell Charles to lay out another plate for you at dinner, shall I?” 

“No, I cannot see that I will make it in time,” Childermass said with a look at the dreary weather outside before he finished his pint and set it down. “It’ll likely be late. A cup of tea will do.” 

“Alright. I’m sure we can get you that.” Segundus looked down at his hand and said wryly, “After all, I am the King of Cups…” 

He was wholly unprepared for the laugh that burst from Childermass’ lips, a quiet, soft sound that was at the same time a harsh bellow, and might have been a sob. Segundus didn’t know what to make of it, and wondered if he had given offence, when Childermass met his eyes with a fond, exasperated grin. 

“Yes. You are.” 

“What,” Segundus replied with a helpless shake of his head, though he found he was, inexplicably, smiling, “does this even mean?”

True to his aggravating nature, Childermass made no sign of intending to elaborate, and instead reached with his little finger across the short distance that separated his hand from Segundus’ on the table. It was the slightest touch, and it shot through Segundus like a bolt of lightning. 

“Since Brewer’s in York,” Childermass began quietly, “I don’t suppose I’ll have to get back on a horse any time soon...” 

Heart beating in his throat, Segundus wondered how Childermass could say it so casually; the proposition was one thing, but the offer, the offer, if indeed it was… 

He forced himself to look at Childermass because he had no strength left not to, and he saw that it had not been said casually at all. Perhaps, Segundus thought, it had cost Childermass more dearly than he could imagine to say it, to hold out that hand, and if Segundus accepted it there might be no measuring what it could cost them both yet. 

If he were to brave the ache that was, and all the hurt that could be, if they were to lean into the discomfort, and dared to face each other, despite each other, Segundus wondered where it would lead them, what would lie beyond. 

He had an inkling of what there might be. He looked down again, at Childermass’ little finger that rested against the side of his hand, just barely.

There was no certainty of it; Childermass could take his hand away, or courage might fail them, or maybe all that would happen was that Segundus would tear himself to pieces, that they would inevitably chafe themselves into nothing against one another, unable to turn back from where they had ended up, or to undo what had been done, but… 

Childermass shifted, barely, but noticeably in the stillness that held them both in the twilight of the grey afternoon, and Segundus was suddenly gripped by terror, terror that he had hesitated too long, that he had missed his chance at stepping into something unknown and frightening. 

He had asked huge, terrifying questions before. There had been no predicting the outcome then, and he had never had a chance at turning back from magic, either, for better or for worse, he had borne the failures and disappointments and the nakedness of looking at something ancient, unfathomable and vast, something that had blinked and looked back at him. If he was to dare to do it all again, and if he failed… 

...then at least, he thought, he would have felt it, every second of it, every facet of it, deep in his bones and blood and all the spaces that connected them and held him together. 

“Perhaps,” he said, gathering his courage into the beginning of a smile, as he met Childermass’ eyes, “you could find time to teach me Pevensey’s Unbuttoning Spell.”


End file.
